What Really Matters
by mattsloved1
Summary: Birthdays had never bothered John. So, he was quite surprised to find himself approaching his fiftieth year with trepidation. A late birthday present for the great MapleleafCameo. Thank goodness she likes fluff! This is a nongraphic Johnlock.


MLC gave me three words: melodious, trepidation and apple. This is what happened.

Many thanks to Johnsarmylady for looking through this for me and helping find a title.

I still don't own them. :-(

* * *

Birthdays had never bothered John. When friends and colleagues joked about another year gone, he would laugh at them. "Technically, I'm only twenty-four hours older than I was at this time yesterday. Three hundred and sixty-five days didn't disappear overnight."

Thanks to medical school, work and then the army, his twenties and thirties rushed by. On his fortieth birthday he was far too busy following Sherlock through the streets of London to celebrate and when the consulting detective became his romantic partner, John knew not to expect such pedestrian things as parties. However, if possible, the two men always ended up at Angelo's for a good meal, a knowing smile from the owner himself and a large flickering candle in the centre of their table.

After surviving Afghanistan and the loss of Sherlock for two years, John was reminded of what was most important in life. He was thankful for each and every birthday the two men reached because it meant more time they had been gifted together.

So, he was quite surprised to find himself approaching his fiftieth year with _trepidation_.

It was true he would only be slightly older than the day before but the good doctor was aware he would soon begin to feel the affect of their lifestyle. His shoulder already ached more when it was cold or damp outside and John knew that was only the beginning. Once he started to slow down who knew how much longer he would be able to help with the cases that filled their lives. From that point onward John's imagination worked against him and his future turned bleak.

By the time Sherlock flew through the door to their flat, his partner was sitting on the sofa, staring blankly at the fireplace. So deep in his thoughts, John hadn't noticed the juice escaping from the _apple_ he was eating slowly or the fact that he was no longer alone. After watching an John rub his shoulder and leg absently, Sherlock removed his coat and scarf before joining him on the sofa.

Feeling the cushions shift, John turned his head, surprised. Sherlock reached over with his left thumb and removed the tempting liquid from where it rested. Dark blue eyes watched as he drew it back towards his mouth. Before it could enter; however, the deep voice spoke.

"There will never be a day when I am not thankful to have you in my life. More than the cases, the thrill they bring or even my own genius."

John smirked. His love never pretended to be humble.

"As we age, our bodies will slow until being a physical part of the chase will become impossible. Climbing the stairs will become more difficult and we will eventually have to make a home elsewhere. Due to technology, we can consult on cases from wherever we may relocate. I must admit to being partial to the idea of Suffolk where I can keep bees and you can write."

The possibilities for their future removed any grey clouds still in John's mind. He smiled to think of Sherlock in a beekeeper's outfit.

"The point I am trying to make is this, we will never do anything alone again. In fact, if it were not for meeting you, I would never have imagined a future for myself."

Tears threatened to blur John's vision. He started to lean forward but froze when Sherlock placed his coated thumb into his mouth and sucked. Always one to perform for an audience, especially his current one, Sherlock removed his thumb and starting to lick around the edge of the nail. John's nostrils flared.

Shifting so he was better facing his partner, Sherlock used his left hand to cradle the right side of John's jaw as he attacked whatever juice lingering on the strong chin. Tongue making slow swipes, he continued until only the smell of John remained. Deciding he quite enjoyed the short panting breaths close to his ear, Sherlock moved to his beloved's neck. A few moments later, John was moaning and Sherlock wished he could compose a symphony to accompany the _melodious_ sounds.

Deciding it was best they move to their bedroom, Sherlock rose from the sofa and held out his hand. Wasting no time, John followed. For the next few hours texts, emails and phone calls were ignored as the two men explored how John turning fifty didn't affect what truly mattered.


End file.
